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Authors: Rory Clements
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if, stubbornly, they refuse to recant, then by His law they should be excluded from life itself. The fire is God’s hand.’
Persons nodded, but without conviction.
There was silence in the room. From outside came the shouts of Spanish traders and the thump of drums.
‘Would you be a king, Mr Roag?’ Persons said suddenly.
‘Would you have me be a king?’
Father Persons smiled and folded his arms. ‘Come, I will hear your confession now, before you embark on your great enterprise.’
Roag did not move. ‘No, Father. I will confess when I return to you, for I know I must commit mortal sins in this holy war. I cannot yet cast off my coat of steel.’
‘Do not imperil your immortal soul, Mr Roag.’
‘No, Father.’
Creswell watched from a first-floor window as Roag untethered his horse and trotted eastwards towards the fish market and the bridge over the Guadalquivir. ‘He is cold and mad,’ he said, half to himself, half to Robert Persons who sat at the table behind him. ‘He has no religion, only resentment.’
‘He will carry out the task we wish, in the way we desire it.’
‘Will he? Can we trust him that much?’
‘Have faith, Joseph, have faith. After all, it is said he is the son of a king.’
‘And do you truly believe he has royal blood in his veins?’
Persons shrugged his shoulders but did not reply.
Chapter 8
R EGIS R OAG GAZED up at the Castillo de Triana. The stone walls were sand-coloured and warm, yet the overall impression was of dark foreboding. The fortress had been built on a massive scale to dominate the old Moorish town of Seville and to many people it was hell on earth, a huge cavern of pain and horror. Roag was not a sentimental man, but even he was struck by its grim power.
The castle stood on the western bank of the Guadalquivir river in the poorer quarter, where the old mariners and prostitutes, the manumitted slaves and beggars, scraped a living. It was the first sight of Seville to greet ships navigating up the olive-green waters of the river and it never failed to cast a gloom over the mariners’ mood. For a hundred and fourteen years now, the building had served as the prison of the city’s Inquisition. Countless men and women – mostly Jews, Moors and Lutherans, but also Catholics – had been brought here, accused of heresy and other crimes. Thousands had been tortured and hundreds had been handed over to the civil authorities – relaxed to the secular arm , as they called it piously – to be burnt at the stake. Those who repented, the fortunate ones, would be strangled by garrotte before the fire was lit.
Roag glanced back across the river to the fish market and, a little further south, to the splendid Torre del Oro. The tower of gold shimmered with warmth in the evening light, amid a tangle of shipyard masts and rigging. Turning back to the Castillo de Triana, the contrast was palpable. He entered through a great arch, next to the pontoon bridge, then dismounted and led his horse on foot. Roag was well known here and faced only peremptory questions from the guard. Striding across the outer courtyard, he passed a queue of black-clad and cowled men and women. He knew, from their furtive glances and the hiding of their faces, why they were there: they were informers, come to denounce enemies, neighbours, mothers or brothers, for gain or spite.
‘She is a fornicator,’ one would say in a shameless whisper; ‘I have heard him lauding the Luther sect,’ another would rasp, venom in her voice; ‘I saw her place a crucifix on the ground, then spread her skirts, squat down and piss on it,’ a scorned suitor would say, ‘what is worse, she is a Jew.’ And so those accused would be hauled before the Inquisitor, while the accusers slunk back into the shadows.
The malice here, amid the immense walls and embattled turrets, was almost tangible.
Roag was recognised by the gatekeeper, who showed him where to tether his horse, then admitted him through the heavy
Persons nodded, but without conviction.
There was silence in the room. From outside came the shouts of Spanish traders and the thump of drums.
‘Would you be a king, Mr Roag?’ Persons said suddenly.
‘Would you have me be a king?’
Father Persons smiled and folded his arms. ‘Come, I will hear your confession now, before you embark on your great enterprise.’
Roag did not move. ‘No, Father. I will confess when I return to you, for I know I must commit mortal sins in this holy war. I cannot yet cast off my coat of steel.’
‘Do not imperil your immortal soul, Mr Roag.’
‘No, Father.’
Creswell watched from a first-floor window as Roag untethered his horse and trotted eastwards towards the fish market and the bridge over the Guadalquivir. ‘He is cold and mad,’ he said, half to himself, half to Robert Persons who sat at the table behind him. ‘He has no religion, only resentment.’
‘He will carry out the task we wish, in the way we desire it.’
‘Will he? Can we trust him that much?’
‘Have faith, Joseph, have faith. After all, it is said he is the son of a king.’
‘And do you truly believe he has royal blood in his veins?’
Persons shrugged his shoulders but did not reply.
Chapter 8
R EGIS R OAG GAZED up at the Castillo de Triana. The stone walls were sand-coloured and warm, yet the overall impression was of dark foreboding. The fortress had been built on a massive scale to dominate the old Moorish town of Seville and to many people it was hell on earth, a huge cavern of pain and horror. Roag was not a sentimental man, but even he was struck by its grim power.
The castle stood on the western bank of the Guadalquivir river in the poorer quarter, where the old mariners and prostitutes, the manumitted slaves and beggars, scraped a living. It was the first sight of Seville to greet ships navigating up the olive-green waters of the river and it never failed to cast a gloom over the mariners’ mood. For a hundred and fourteen years now, the building had served as the prison of the city’s Inquisition. Countless men and women – mostly Jews, Moors and Lutherans, but also Catholics – had been brought here, accused of heresy and other crimes. Thousands had been tortured and hundreds had been handed over to the civil authorities – relaxed to the secular arm , as they called it piously – to be burnt at the stake. Those who repented, the fortunate ones, would be strangled by garrotte before the fire was lit.
Roag glanced back across the river to the fish market and, a little further south, to the splendid Torre del Oro. The tower of gold shimmered with warmth in the evening light, amid a tangle of shipyard masts and rigging. Turning back to the Castillo de Triana, the contrast was palpable. He entered through a great arch, next to the pontoon bridge, then dismounted and led his horse on foot. Roag was well known here and faced only peremptory questions from the guard. Striding across the outer courtyard, he passed a queue of black-clad and cowled men and women. He knew, from their furtive glances and the hiding of their faces, why they were there: they were informers, come to denounce enemies, neighbours, mothers or brothers, for gain or spite.
‘She is a fornicator,’ one would say in a shameless whisper; ‘I have heard him lauding the Luther sect,’ another would rasp, venom in her voice; ‘I saw her place a crucifix on the ground, then spread her skirts, squat down and piss on it,’ a scorned suitor would say, ‘what is worse, she is a Jew.’ And so those accused would be hauled before the Inquisitor, while the accusers slunk back into the shadows.
The malice here, amid the immense walls and embattled turrets, was almost tangible.
Roag was recognised by the gatekeeper, who showed him where to tether his horse, then admitted him through the heavy
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